“How can you possibly—” Constance began. She stopped when Dorothea held up a hand.
“I have my ways,” she said. “Storyville exists because the powers that be sanctified that defined section of New Orleans as a protected enclave of sin. And so it is. The gambling is quite as vile as the prostitution. And as destructive. Perhaps more so. The place is filled with criminals of every ilk. And by men of every social standing, from the lowest to the top. Some with power and influence—even over the Black Hand. Some whose power and influence I am well acquainted with.” Dorothea paused. “I have some pull—for a woman. There are those who are indebted to me in one way or another.” Dorothea opened the needlepoint bag and drew out her driving gloves. “I regret that you have had to endure this terror, and your children, as well, but it will end immediately. Of that, you can be assured.”
Constance walked her to the door, where Dorothea leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Do you think your girls would like a quick ride around the block in my car before I head to city hall? Have they ever been in a motorcar? I know how excited they have seemed when I arrive in it. Bring them down. We have time yet to lighten their day.”
CHAPTER 32
Alone in the sewing room, Alice paused as sounds of laughter and high glee floated in from the playroom down the hall. Constance’s own laughter anchored that of the little ones. A certain calm had maintained itself in the house since Dorothea’s visit, though no one had played outdoors or put on a blindfold. None of the adults had left the house; no errand was more important than their mutual safety. Danger still lurked, unknown and menacing. It could be anywhere. Alice grasped its hovering gravity. For this moment, however, they were in this house, in these rooms, playing, laughing, mother and children. And Alice was threading a needle.
She held her needle still as she gazed at this beautiful beadwork, the elaborate stitches, this exquisite project that offered fulfillment to her creative spirit. Soon it would be done, she thought, each draw of that needle bringing her closer and closer to the end of her employment, to the end of this sheltered place, even with its present harrowing moment of insecurity. It was not her personal insecurity, though, that hovered around and within her, but a shared uncertainty, one in which she was included. Her inclusion would soon be done with. What would she do then?
There was the orphanage, of course. She would be safe. But there would be no sense of inclusion. She would be little more than a stranger offered temporary shelter in exchange for her service, a much-needed teacher for the girls, but not one who belonged either with them or with those who kept the orphanage going at all levels. She was not one with any of them. No one there would truly know her. No one there had any need to know her except as a woman who could instruct the girls so that they might become skilled workers in the mills for ready-made clothing, which had begun to flourish. So that they might work long hours with little pay, but enough at least to keep them alive. The rising demand for ready-made clothing offered a steady demand for girls with these straightforward skills. Alice might hope for a few whose skills exceeded the basics, for whom there might be employment in the higher design workshops.
Alice could provide such competence for them, for the orphans and the half-orphans, who might then contribute to any remaining family. But she herself could not depend long on the orphanage. The infant turning now in her abdomen would be born in a matter of months. The orphanage was no place for her once the pregnancy became more advanced, and certainly not when the birth was imminent. What would she do? There was no refuge for orphaned adults.
Alice had no doubt that she could find work. If nothing else, she could go to the mills herself. How hard that would be now. Already she found herself tiring more easily. The long hours of the mills, without breaks, the pressure for speed—she was fully aware how grueling the work was. She had heard about it in Chicago. And she had heard about it in New Orleans, at the orphanage, before this temporary rescue. Here in this house she had everything she needed: privacy, respect, challenging work, and admiration for it. Alice picked up a pearl with the tip of the needle, shook it down and, holding the needle high, watched it slide down the length of thread to its designated place. She tucked the needle into the silk and anchored the pearl in its place. If only she could be that pearl, that or any other of these pearls, anchored, belonging.
*
Alice rose and walked to the playroom. At the door, she stood observing Constance and her girls. Her heart was pierced with longing for her own mother.
Maggie held a wooden toy vehicle in her hand, acquired days ago from a street peddler hawking his wares. On hands and knees, she raced it in circles around her mother, who watched intently, lunging at unanticipated moments to tickle the child, who fell over giggling and kicking before resuming her race as fast as she could, watching her mother, teasing out another tickle, falling in laughter again. In the corner, Delia imitated her mother, tickling her china baby doll, flipping it so its eyes opened and closed, impersonating her sister’s shrill giggles.
Constance looked up, smiled, started to rise, but Alice shook her head.
“I came only to tell you I’m at a point you might want to see. Nothing urgent. Take your time with the girls.”
“Come and join us.”
Alice’s pregnancy was beginning to make such easy maneuvers difficult now. “Hmmm. Maybe not on the floor. I’ll sit in the chair.”
Constance pushed herself to standing. “We’ve already had quite a good time this morning. Girls, can you give Miss Alice a hug? How about one for your mama?”
There ensued a rush of tangled arms around first one, then the other.
“Mama needs to go look at her wonderful new dress. You girls can play till lunch. I’ll call you then, all right?” Constance leaned down to kiss each of them.
Straight back to their play, Maggie commenced running her wooden car up Delia’s back, and both of them tickled one another and the doll in a wild scramble. In the midst of the giggles, Alice heard Constance turn back with a warning to Delia to be gentle with her doll.
“I be careful, Mama. I take good care of my baby.”
In a deep flash, Alice could feel the moment of bitter shock as Jonathan’s empty face, eyes wide, emerged from the cold water in that porcelain sink. Her own fever weakening her as she struggled with Howard to retrieve her baby from his hands, pounded his arms. His voice, desperate, protesting, “I couldn’t save him, Alice. I had to get his fever down. I couldn’t, couldn’t . . .” He finally surrendered Jonathan’s bare little body, that sweet, empty face dripping cold water onto her own fevered arms.
Unable to walk now, she put her hand on the wall for balance, near to gagging. When she felt Constance’s hand supporting her, Alice took a deep breath, but she could not yet straighten her body, Jonathan’s unbreathing face in her vision, Howard’s mumbled “Don’t, Daddy. Please, please, Daddy, don’t,” echoing in her ears, the slam of the door at Howard’s departure, her dead baby in her arms.
“Are you still having nausea?”
Constance’s concern dispelled her distress.
“No. I’m all right.” Alice knew she would never again be all right. Nor trust herself not to be seized by unanticipated shock. “Just a bit dizzy. It’s gone.”